Height of the Fallen
by verycopacetic
Summary: A month after the fall, Sherlock is a totally new person. New physical appearence, new identity, and new personality to wrap it all up, but when he runs into limping-John again, how will he be able to stand the emotions he had as a new person? Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock. Snowball effect. R&R.
1. Holmes

"_In the old age black was not counted fair,_

_Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; _

_But now is black beauty's successive heir,_

_And beauty slandered with a bastards shame:_

_For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,_

_Fairing the foul with Art's false borrowed face,_

_Sweet beauty hath no name, no hold bower,_

_But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace."_

-CXXVII; The Dark Lady Sonnets; William Shakespeare.

**Chapter One.**

_The flat was destroyed and Sherlock half-leaned against the doorframe in utter disbelief. _

"John!" Sherlock called out in the midst of his darkened bedroom, his low voice panic-stricken, his hands clenched the blankets of the bed, his body trembling as it pressed itself deeply into the mattress. "John?" he cried out again, but it wasn't really him, no- he was dreaming. As much of a dream that a nightmare could be.

_The bookshelves had been completely ravished, the furniture scattered and torn apart, small hints of bleach-scrubbed blood-stains on the wooden floor meeting with the smell of antibacterial medication in his nose. Sherlock's crystal blue eyes looked devastated as he peered about, pulling his thin, pale figure through the apartment, holding himself up against the wall. There was no sign of life, no sure sign of safety, and no sign of what he truly desired to see again- John. _

_He continued walking through the flat, his black shoes lazily scuffing against the floor as he moved. His eyes flickered about as he choked back gasps and whimpers at what his deducing of the surroundings made him believe- the carpet was pushed back, as if someone had slipped, fallen, and scurried back up, not taking the time to adjust it again (maybe not having the time to adjust it again). One of the two lamps were on- the one by his old chair, but not John's- why? After further investigation, he found the lamp on John's side table had burnt out._

_The blood on the floor, deep, desperate fingernail markings on the wooden door that lead to the staircase- it was as if Sherlock could remake the entire scenario in his mind. John was taken- killed, most likely- and Sherlock's false suicide had all been in vain. _

"John!" Sherlock gasped once more, his shirtless form lunging upwards in bed, the stack of two pillows that were once behind his head now flying forward, following the former-detectives movements in suit. His body had broken out into a cold sweat, the sheets surrounding the male's form generously wet with perspiration. "Just…a dream…" Sherlock whispered to himself, his chest rising and falling heavily in the darkness of his hotel room. It'd been nearly a month since he had committed a false suicide to protect his friends, and every single day had felt like a year.

It'd been more than difficult for Sherlock to prevent himself from contacting anyone from his past life- no texting, no calls, no stake-outs to catch a small glimpse of his friends from before. To the world, he was no longer Sherlock Holmes- the dark, curly-haired, high-functioning sociopath most people hated, but no one ever forgot. His hair had been trimmed, not too much, but just enough; he no longer wore his signature trench-coat and scarf duo, knowing that it was the outfit of the world's only Consulting Detective, and stuck to simple button-up shirts and cardigans. There wasn't much he could do about his features, but those didn't really matter- as long as he kept quiet and stayed to himself, no one would give him a second thought.

Normally that wouldn't bother him, but it did now. He no longer had anyone to hate him, to talk about him behind his back (or even to his face, for that matter), and he felt more invisible as someone else then he ever did as an unpaid, loathed detective. It was as if he was in a Witness Protection Unit.

After a rather stressful, unemotional reunion with his brother, Sherlock had been able to convince Mycroft to pay his way about and ensure no one knew of his existence- he couldn't risk the lives of the people he loved, but he needed the basic necessities. Sherlock had promised his brother he would, eventually, find a way to pay his way about London, but nothing he found could stimulate his higher intelligence enough to satisfy him the way criminal work did. _You're not Sherlock Holmes anymore, little brother_, he remembered Mycroft scold him. _You're going to have to settle._

"Settle," Sherlock scoffed, rubbing his fingertips over his closed eyes a few times before carefully throwing off his blanket and moving to stand onto his feet, the sudden rush of vertigo making him wobble slightly. He let off a heavy sigh, wiggling his toes into the supple carpet beneath him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness- the hotel was lavish, nothing like he was ever used too, but he had become accustomed to the lifestyle of someone who had to do nothing in particular. Glancing over at his bedside table, he noted the time and sighed to himself- it wasn't even daylight yet. His nightmares had become more frequent, more severe over the last few days, and all he wanted to do was sleep, but deep down he knew he didn't deserve that kind of peace. His body still ached from the injuries he sustained from his fall, and he knew it would take much longer than four weeks to be completely healed.

Padding slowly across the carpet, Sherlock stepped to the window, each of his hands gripping on to one curtain before he yanked it open with a small grunt, his eyes adjusting to the bright, alive city of London four stories below him. Mycroft really had outdone himself, making his younger brother as comfortable as possible in the time of suppressed uncomfort. "Bloody hell…" he whispered to himself, stepping forward to press his still-clammy body against the sliding door, his eyes staring forward as the cool glass gradually lowered his body temperature and made his sore insides scream in pleasure. Pressing his hands against the glass, his fingers drumming in a short, rapid pattern for a few long moments, making his bruised right wrist wince, he let his left hand slide down until it reached the handle, and he simultaneously stepped back and slid the door open, releasing a furious rush of chilly February air towards him, forcing his teeth to clench.

Stepping out onto the patio, not shutting the door behind him and not bothering to turn back and get a coat, he pressed his hips against the safety bars that prevented him from falling forward. "Nippy out at four in the morning, isn't it?" he addressed in a breathy tone to nothing but the cold air surrounding him. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers and a thin pair of sweatpants over them, and a brace around his torso that held his body tightly together, his natural, yet abnormally warm, body heat doing nothing to spare him from the brisk wind outside. Leaning forward, he moved his hands to clench the metal bar in front of him- he knew his life would never be the same, and he knew that, one day, he'd have to conform to the feeble minds below his feet, but he didn't want too. He knew he'd have to eventually swallow his pride and take a job at a place that was less than substantial, but he didn't want to. He longed to be back home, to stand in front of the window of 221b Baker Street, violin in hand as he played harmonics that reverberated through the thin walls of his flat while his best friend sipped tea and read a novel, one he had read several times previously, on the chair behind him.

"This isn't working," Sherlock began, leaning over the metal bar even more, disregarding the searing pain that shot through his body at the movement, now to the extent of where he was standing on his toes to prevent him from falling forward. "I can't do this!" he exclaimed almost too loudly, not caring who heard his choked-up tone; "I need my old life back… I need Baker Street… I need John, I can't _bloody_ believe how ignorant I've been," he growled to himself, lowering his body back to his feet and slamming his hands down on the safety bar once he was safely stable. He regretted his suicide, regretted leaving everyone but his brother in the dark for the safety of his peers, but in the end it was worth it- they were alive, and that small fact made his body flush with a sort of warmth, causing pleasurable goose bumps to rise on his pale flesh.

As suddenly as his small burst of happiness appeared, it vanished, leaving his prior expression of eager aggravation to one of sadness. Though John was safe at the Flat, Sherlock missed him, and now that he was no longer who he used to be, he wasn't afraid to show it. He wasn't subtle like he used to be, wasn't the closed-off and uncaring person he introduced himself as to everyone he had ever met. Feelings never got him far in life, so he pretended he didn't have any, and it worked for a while, but in the few people he had interacted with lately, in a personality "test-run," he knew the façade wouldn't hold up.

He wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore. He _was_ in the since of intelligence and brutality, but physically and emotionally, he was something else. Something entirely new. _Someone _entirely new. He could be read as easily as he could read, and he could be caught as easily as he could catch, and he was in pain almost one-third of the time. "I'm not Sherlock," he began to himself below his breath, hoping that constantly repeating that phrase vocally would validate the situation to his mind. "I haven't been for a while now, have I?" he asked the air again, looking up to the night sky, smiling for just a moment before letting his expression turn firm again. "Have I really become so…so…" he waved a hand around at his words, unable to think of something to finish his sentence in a momentary lapse of mental function as he lifted his hands to run them through his hair when suddenly he froze as a singular word blew through him, wrapping around him like a snake who caught its prey, engulfing every fiber of his brilliant being and making him shiver from the cold, ominous tone it was spoken through- a stern word drawn out and spoken lightly, the pitch heightened at the end making it seem more like question:

"_Obvious_?"

Sherlock spun around swiftly and groaned in pain, as if to make eye contact with the being that had answered the question he had asked to no one in particular, only to meet eyes with nothing but a shut sliding-glass door and the dark room behind it. "You're overreacting, Sherlock," he growled to himself, pushing off the safety bar towards the glass door, his eyebrows furrowing as he stared at the handle of it- he swore he had left it open. _Well, the wind is quite strong, maybe it shut it…_ He thought to himself, yanking it to the side and slipping into the warm hold of the hotel room, shutting the door silently behind him. All was silent again.

He could fell himself losing his touch, could feel his intelligence quota dwindle down all the more every single day he went without his work, and as he shuffled towards the bathroom across the way, hands limp at his sides, he was sure it was for the best. "No one likes a self-absorbed personality," he began, sticking his hand inside the bathroom and hitting it against the wall, moving it all around until he reached the light, and flicked it on, narrowing his eyes against the bright white fluorescent light that illuminated not only the bathroom, but a good portion of the bedroom beyond.

Stepping inside, not bothering to shut the door behind him considering he slept alone, he placed his hands on the granite counter of the sink and stared forward at his reflection- never did he hate what he saw more than right then. He had lost a good amount of weight, not that he wasn't skinny enough to begin with- he looked dead, pale, and tired, his natural glow replaced with sunken in eyes and furrowed eyebrows, his scraggly hair looking all the more pathetic. Turning his head look to the side, he examined his features for just a moment before flipping the faucet on and cupped his hands together, gathering a good portion of cold water before he leaned his head down and splashed it in his face, inciting a small gasp that escaped his pale pink lips.

Turning off the faucet, he walked away from the bathroom and over to his bed, throwing himself down onto the sheets and wriggling beneath them. He was awake now, but only half an hour had passed, and he couldn't run off to meet his brother for at least another three and a half hours, and without Mycroft, Sherlock really had no purpose. "Maybe today will be the day I see John," he said to himself, burying his short, curly hair into the satin pillows beneath his head. He knew it wouldn't be, but he could at least hope.


	2. Filthy Habits

**Chapter Two.**

"Sherlock," Mycroft began, pacing back and forth in front of the couch his younger brother sat on, glancing at him occasionally before shaking his head and continuing to walk. "You can't simply stay in that hotel of yours- it's simply childish of you to hide away for so long!"

Sherlock had been in his older brothers' office for a good hour and a half now, arguing over his current residency and lack of effort to piece his life back together. After a night of hardly any sleep and a morning filled with hair dye and angst, Sherlock now sat in a much-too-plush chair across the room from Mycroft's desk, slunk down as far as he could go while still remaining in a seated position, his new light-auburn colored hair curled lusciously around his ears and back of the neck. Mycroft hardly recognized his little brother when he first stepped into the room, which was exactly what Sherlock had been going for.

"What do you expect me to do, Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned, his eyes following his brothers pacing, yet his body remaining perfectly still. "If one person finds out who I am, everyone I've come to know will be shot dead. The media hasn't even calmed down from my suicide over a month ago, what am I supposed to do?"

"Face the issue!" Mycroft exclaimed, turning towards his brother and halting his pacing directly in front of his slender legs. "You've never been afraid to step out in the middle of a feud! You once enjoyed the look on people's faces when they realized you had no fear, but now you're sitting here, dying your hair and dressing like a sixty-year-old Cabby because a few people with guns are waiting for you to screw up! Look at you Sherlock! Look at what you've become- you're a ghost of your former self," Mycroft ranted, motioning to his younger brother.

"My former self no longer exists," Sherlock injected bitterly.

"And for what reason?" Mycroft questioned.

"The longevity of the lives of my higher-level acquaintances," the former detective stated matter-of-factly.

Mycroft grunted and turned away from his little brother, walking behind his desk and sitting gently into the leather chair that now seemed much too large for him. "I still can't comprehend how you did all of this, Sherlock."

"All of what?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, his eyes bored and empty of any and all feeling.

"This, Sherlock! All of this!" Mycroft motioned his hands forward to the detective. "How did you get away- how did you fake the suicide? You're legally enlisted as being dead, Sherlock- your certificate states the day you jumped off the top of that roof; died on site, and they took you directly to the morgue. I don't understand how you did it," he sighed, shaking his head in blank wonder.

Sherlock felt the corner of his lips pull up into a smile, but at Mycroft's instant glare at him, it dissipated. "You always were one to pester the magician to know the secret to his trick, Mycroft; even if it meant taking all of the wonder out of it. Can't you just be happy I'm alive and move on?" A fall from that height should have killed him, yes, but it didn't; he knew the moment he stepped onto that roof to speak to Moriarty, he would end up jumping off, and he was more than prepared.

Though the phone call to John, sating his goodbyes, was completely genuine, his death wasn't. Weeks prior to Reichenbach, Sherlock had done research, knowing that, sooner than not, a time like this would happen. Sherlock played stupid for Moriarty, allowing him to have the upper hand before Sherlock went and faked his death. He knew before he died that Moriarty couldn't be allowed to continue living, and before he jumped off that roof he had to ensure the criminals death was genuine before he even considered attempting to make his the same.

Mycroft hadn't even been told of Sherlock's plans, simply receiving a queued email for him to be in St. Bart's morgue after the information of Sherlock's death made the news that evening, the ex-detective refusing to say how he did it, but appreciating the medical care his older brother had given him up until now. He still had a thick, padded medical wrap around his pale white chest, caring for the two broken, slowly healing, ribs inside his torso and helping support his bruised and beaten back; likewise, he still wore a brace on his right hand, and had a small, pale scar from stitches just above his left temple. He was lucky he didn't puncture his lungs or have any major organs collapse; he was lucky he didn't die at all, but he was still in immense pain from the fall, and every day felt like a battle to simply get up from bed.

Clearing his throat, a small look of pain washed over Sherlock's face suddenly, forcing him to sink all the lower in his chair, and Mycroft eyed him carefully, worried. It seemed every time Sherlock came to visit they started arguing- not only was it not good for Mr. Holmes- the Senior, stressing him out beyond belief against his already stressful job, it wasn't good for Mr. Holmes- Junior, in his already broken state. Mycroft constantly worried about Sherlock's wellbeing now, knowing he no longer had anyone to watch out for him at home, afraid any night could be a "Danger Night," in the empty life of Sherlock Holmes.

Which was a good enough fear to have, because Sherlock had considered it multiple times over.

The room fell silent of anything except for Sherlock's rapid, labored breathing.

"Did you take your medication this morning?" Mycroft asked after a few moments of eye contact.

"Dull," Sherlock forced out, swallowing hard and breathing deep, leaning his head back against the back of the overly-plush chair he sat in.

"Sherlock.." Mycroft sighed, shaking his head and leaning forward, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "How do you expect to get better if you're not helping yourself? You've got to be hurting-"

"I don't need painkillers to function, Mycroft," Sherlock interjected almost too bitterly.

"You need them to heal," the older man stated calmly.

"I haven't touched a single pill in weeks, but I'm sure you're more concerned about my issues with street drugs rather than some pathetic little white pills in pale pink bottles sitting in my sock drawer in my hotel room."

"Sherlock-"

"I haven't touched cocaine either, Mycroft."

"I-"

"Can I leave now?" Sherlock asked, moving hi hand to grip onto the armrests of the chair he sat in and began pulling himself upwards, gritting his teeth together and swallowing back a groan as he pulled himself up, feeling almost every bone and organ in his body screaming out in protest, but he kept his face composed. "This conversation is starting to bore me."

"I- Well… Yeah, sure, go ahead," Mycroft sighed, motioning to the door as he reached across his desk for a glass bottle of Bourbon and a small, crystal glass to pour it in. His actions made Sherlock smirk; his brother worried about his drug issues, yet expected nothing in return about his alcohol…

Adjusting his white button-up, Sherlock nodded at his brother and turned around, stepping at lightly towards the door that would eventually lead him out of the building as he heard ice clink to the bottom of the glass held in the nervous hand of the brother behind him.

"That's a filthy habit to have, Mycroft-" Sherlock began, his left hand taking the doorknob between his fingertips as he turned back towards his brother and gently opened the door, just in time to see the dark brown liquid pour into the bottle. "-Drinking when you're frustrated. It'll come back to bite you one day."

"As will you're supposed death, Sherlock," Mycroft seethed, eyeing his brother as he closed the crystal glass that held the Bourbon and lifted the cup to his lips, taking a sip whilst closing his eyes, not noticing Sherlock had slipped out of the room already. "…As will your supposed death."


	3. Watson

**Chapter Three.**

It wasn't often Sherlock brought himself to pass by Baker Street, but there was something inside of him that made it seem like a terribly good idea. Cigarette hanging between his lips, he took a heavy drag as he stepped- nasty habit, he knew that, but with nothing to distract him now he unfortunately reached towards his tobacco addiction for comfort. He had headphones in his ears, the black chord from them trailing down his chest and into the left, front pocket of his trousers, even though there was no music playing. He wanted to seem as inconspicuous as possible, his gate no longer smooth and powerful like it used to be due to his injuries, and his mind nowhere as strong as it once was. Oh, how he wanted to unlock the door into 221b and step inside, waltz up the stairs like he used to, hang up the trench coat he had locked away in his hotel room and slip into a pair of pajamas and his best dressing gown, and sit patiently until John arrived so he could explain everything, but that couldn't happen- not now, not ever.

The noise of the people around him were muffled slightly due to the headphones in his ears, and he appreciated that- the noise of the common folk frustrated him. Coughing once, continuing his patient, timely drags through his mouth and exhaling out his nose, he felt his pulse quicken with each step closer he got to Baker Street. Although he was hungry, he couldn't go into any stores or cafés with risk of having his false identity found out; he hadn't come up with a name to use to introduce himself as, knowing full well he couldn't use 'Sherlock Holmes,' anymore, so he paid for everything, whenever he needed something, either in cash, or through Mycroft.

_Henry, maybe,_ he thought to himself. _I always found the name Henry to suit me… Henry… Stetson… Yeah, that seems quite clever- Henry Stetson._ He smiled to himself at his thoughts, going through long list of possible names to use as a false identity, to make a new life as someone else, living in the same mind of the late Sherlock Holmes. _I'll need to talk to Mycroft, get some papers drawn up, a bank account and a card with my name, maybe even a new flat here on Baker Street, start over as Henry Stetson… Biologist, maybe-_ his thoughts were interrupted as he ran head-on into someone, quickly blinking and stepping back into reality as he tugged his headphones out and stuffed them into his pocket, quickly apologizing to the man he ran into.

"Excuse me, I wasn't paying attention," Sherlock began, leaning down with a painful grunt and picking up a few of the items that had been inside a brown, paper grocery bag, quickly refilling it and holding it in his right arm before sticking his left hand out to the dusty blonde who was gripping onto his cane and struggling to pull himself back up to his feet. "Forgive me-"

"Oh, no worries, I wasn't watching either-" the man interjected, taking Sherlock's pale hand in his free one and grunting as he used both Sherlock's weight and the cane to stand, but his words trailed off as soon as he was standing straight. The two men made eyes, and Sherlock felt his heart tear to bits.

_John, _Sherlock thought, releasing the blonde's hand as soon as he was standing straight. He glanced the short, muscular man up and down once, eyes lingering on the cane in his hand for a moment as he thought, _…I thought I had gotten rid of that… It's only been a little over a month, and I had gotten rid of that._

"Uhm, hello," he stated simply, blinking a few times as he eyed the man up and down.

"Ah, yes, hello! Once again, terribly sorry for running into you," Sherlock apologized, a look of remorse flashing on his pale features as he spoke in a voice unlike his usual. It was slightly higher, filled with much more emotion than how he used to speak. He prayed to whatever God may be out there that his disgustingly thin frame and short, auburn hair wouldn't tip John off to who he was actually standing in front of. "Henry Stetson. I'd shake your hand, but I'm sure you're probably angry about the fall and what not, so…" he trailed off, offering the soldier his groceries back.

"John Watson," the other replied, a look of disappointment and curiosity obvious on his face as he spoke; their eyes met again, and Sherlock willed himself to look confused, raising an eyebrow as they stood in the middle of the walkway, his hands still stretched out with the brown paper bag. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, you just remind me of someone I used to know," John began, shifting his weight a bit so he could reach out and grab the groceries. "I don't know why, you look and sound nothing like him, there's just something about your… Never mind…" he looked to the floor, clearing his throat for a moment before looking up again.

"John Watson?" Sherlock repeated, the title tingling on his tongue and making him feel sick to his stomach. "Ah, yes, I've heard of you before! Doctor John Watson, it's a great pleasure to meet you! How unfortunate about your collogue… Would you, uh, like some help with your bags? Seems you're on the crutch again…"

"Yeah," John stated his voice meek and blank. "What can you do?"

Sherlock swallowed back his sorrow. "Help you with your groceries?" he repeated lightly, forcing a smile onto his pale pink lips.

John gave a quick, half smile before standing up straight and nodding. "Sure, I'd appreciate that, actually. Flat's right over here," John nodded, gripping onto his cane as he turned towards the road, looked left and right, and crossed carefully. Sherlock took the brown bag before he followed in-suit, walking behind the dirty blonde-haired man as if he hadn't a clue where he was going.

"I've never been to this part of London before; I live in Cardiff," Sherlock began, turning his around in mock-wonder, gazing at all the people as they passed by.

"Cardiff, huh? That's a few hours away from here; on holiday?" John asked, turning his head back to look at the auburn-haired man as he unlocked the dusty blue-grey door to 221b. "Come on in."

"Yeah, staying at a hotel right down the road, actually," Sherlock nodded, following behind John as he stepped through the door, shutting it gently behind him as he held on to the bag of groceries almost too tightly. The hallway nearly suffocated him with memories; oh, how many times he'd imagined stepping into this room again, taking in the old feel of it all.

"Up this way," John motioned, starting up the stairs, pacing himself so he wouldn't become too tired out, Sherlock following behind him, feet clicking against the wooden steps of the staircase as they rose higher and higher. They stayed silent as they walked; besides, they were strangers- what were you to talk about?

As they reached the top of the stairs, John opened the door to the sitting room and stepped in, Sherlock following still, until he paused in the door frame. The room had been tidied, yes, but nothing had been changed. Walking into the room and closing the door behind him, he began turning in a small circle, he looked at his surroundings- his chair still sat where it always had, violin and bow resting gently on top of it. His skull was still on the mantel, turned more towards John's chair rather than the wall, and the door into Sherlock's old room was open.

_Did he move into my room?_ He thought, hearing John speaking in the background, but choosing to ignore it for the time being. Looking back towards the door, Sherlock froze as his eyes met with a long, purpleish-blue scarf. _My scarf,_ he thought staring at it. He had lost it in the fall. Sighing, he was now completely out of it, that was, until he felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned around to make eyes with the shorter man in front of him. "Is, uh, everything alright, Henry?" John asked, cocking his head to the side, the typical worried look of a doctor rising onto his features.

"Oh, yes, just looking at your place. It's lovely," Sherlock stated lightly. "Where's the kitchen?"

"Right over here," John began, turning around towards the kitchen and heading towards it, Sherlock following once again. He noticed the table in the center of the kitchen had been cleared of all scientific goods- beakers, test tubes, nothing of the sort left in site. "You can just take the things out of the bag and set them on the table. I'll put them away later."

"Absolutely," Sherlock smiled, stepping to the table in pained, fluent motion, and set the brown bag down, beginning to take things out and set them down onto the top. "Lovely kitchen you have here, Mr. Watson."

"Please, call me John," the doctor stated, looking at Sherlock and nodding before fiddling around the kitchen in search for a teapot. "I appreciate you helping me; could I make you a cup of tea out of thanks?"

"That sounds brilliant. It's a bit nippy out there, yeah, I'd appreciate it," Sherlock nodded, crumpling the paper bag in his hands before smoothing it out on the counter and folding it into thirds.

"Alright," John began, filling the teapot with warm water while opening the cupboard and pulling out two cups and two saucers. "Feel free to make yourself comfortable, Henry, it'll only be a few moments."

"Thank you, John. You're most kind," Sherlock began, walking out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, taking a seat in John's chair, instantly pulling his feet up beneath him, but finding that to be "too Sherlock," so he quickly placed his feet flat on the floor to be less obvious as he looked around- the room really hadn't changed at all, but he was dying to know if John had moved into his old room. He had kept his scarf that was for certain; was he really getting pain from his "death,"?

"So, you said you're from Cardiff?" John called out to 'Henry,' as he leaned against the table in the kitchen. "And you're in London alone?"

"Yeah," Sherlock sighed. "Don't have much close family, at least none living in the UK, so I'm just… Traveling, I guess. Have nowhere to settle down, so I just keep moving, but I'm tight on money at the moment, so I'm stuck in London until I get my funds up," Sherlock lied, shrugging along with his words.

John clicked his tongue as he looked at the auburn- there was something about him that was putting him off, something about his figure that made John question almost everything, but he ignored it. "Ah," he said nonchalantly, sighing and looking back over to the pot of water on the stove, willing it to start howling.

"You still have a flat mate?" Sherlock asked after a few moments of silence, craning his neck to look over towards his old room before looking straight at the violin in front of him. Oh, how he longed to play that again…

"No," John began. "Since Sherlock… Well… You know," John began, looking at "Henry."

Sherlock nodded in remorse.

"I just moved into his old room and left the room upstairs to Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. No reason to take up both rooms when there's only myself…"

"Understandable," Sherlock nodded, wiggling in his seat. The idea that came to mind was not a good one, and he knew Mycroft would never approve. Not only would it jeopardize John's safety, but it could compromise everything he had made up in the last month. He was no longer Sherlock Holmes, though- no superior intelligence, no trench coat and scarf, no low voice and brilliant, curly black hair, no: he was Henry Stetson- Biologist from Cardiff, Wales, with his button-up's and trousers, velvet voice and obnoxious, short red hair. He stayed silent for a long moment, surveying the room. "I'm going to be in town for a while," Sherlock began, leaning forward slightly as he rested his elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. "Would you be interested in sharing the flat?"


	4. Flatmates

**Chapter Four.**

The question made John blink rapidly for a moment. "We ju- we just met Henry, are you sure about that?" John asked as the tea kettle behind him began to heighten the pitch of the steam that escaped from it.

"Why not? I've heard a lot about you, I'll stay out of your way, I promise, it's just expensive to stay in a hotel for so long, not to mention utterly dull…" Sherlock trailed off, wrinkling his nose. It sounded like a good idea to him- he'd have someone to keep him company, and John would be able to have a new friend.

"But I just lost… I... Henry, I don't think I'm ready. I'm sorry, but I just lost Sherlock a month ago, and you already remind me too much of him- it's killing me to stand here and make you tea, let alone see that face every day?" John shook his head and pulled the kettle from the stovetop, pouring the hot water into the tea cups.

Sherlock stood up and walked to the kitchen, not wanting to make John feel the need to carry his tea to him. "I'm sorry," Sherlock began to say, his tone low and sad as he picked up his own cup and saucer. "I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable, John. I shouldn't have asked."

"No, you shouldn't've," John sighed, picking up his own saucer and stepping across the kitchen and into the sitting room once more, setting the saucer down onto the side table by Sherlock's old chair before he moved the violin and string onto the floor and sat down into the plush seat.

Sherlock walked over and sat across from him, in the seat that was once John's. He slunk down, feeling bad for being pushy to his old friend who had no idea who he even was. He looked at John as he brought the cup to his lips, studied his face while he took a sip of the tea- the soldier looked tired, shaven, but drained. He was wearing a shirt that was, at least, three days old, and his hair looked like it had been washed, but uncared for.

"Uhm… How's the blog going? I haven't had a chance to look at it recently," Sherlock began, his tone still lighter, infused with embarrassment and sorrow.

"Haven't updated it since his suicide," John stated blankly, taking a sip of his tea. He wasn't addressing him by "Sherlock," simply as "him" or "his."

"Do you plan on updating it?" Sherlock asked, sitting up slightly, curious now.

"There's no more Consulting Detective. No more cases. No reason to update it," John muttered.

He was bitter; why? "I'd like to think Sherlock would like if you took over his old positio-" Sherlock began, but he didn't get very far before he heard a clatter or John' saucer being placed on the side table.

"Who are you to know what Sherlock would and wouldn't like me to do, Henry? Huh?" John snapped, raising an eyebrow. "Did you even know him?"

_I am him, John. Look closer,_ Sherlock thought, setting his own saucer down and leaning back in his chair. "Well, no, but-"

"Who are you to come into my flat after practically knocking me down in the middle of the walkway, then doing me a good deed and sit here asking me questions about my best friend, who killed himself a little over a month ago?" John continued, his voice shaking, even though he tried his hardest to retain his composure.

_Deduce me, John. _"I apologized-" Sherlock began, but John interjected him.

"Thank you for your assistance, Henry, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave now," John began, clearing his throat and standing up, gripping his cane as he walked to the door and opened it.

_John… _Sherlock pressed his lips together and stood up. "I'm sorry, John, I didn't-"

"It's fine," John mumbled, motioning for him to leave with his other hand. His face was blank, but his eyes were pools of the deepest sorrow but his soldiers strength was one that prevented the emotions from breaking free entirely.

_Don't be so obvious. You're lying. _"I'm sorry," Sherlock apologized.

"I know," John nodded a few times before clearing his throat and standing up straight. _No tears until the ginger leaves,_ he thought to himself, his hand slipping behind the door and grabbing onto the purple scarf. The hold of the fabric was enough to make him quiver, yet stand firm.

"Look, if there's any work I could do for you during this…mourning time… Let me know, alright? I'm at the hotel right down the street, room 14D, fourth floor. I'll be more than happy to make up my inconvenience to you," Sherlock sighed, stepping out of the room and into the hallway.

"There'll be no need, Henry. I'm moving out of Baker Street this coming Thursday and moving in with my sister, Harriet. There are too many memories here, and your presence has made it official. Thank you for your help, have a good evening," John said quickly, slamming the door in Sherlock's face before turning right around, grabbing the scarf, and sliding down onto the floor with his back against the wooden door.

Sherlock stood dead in the doorway, the front of the door only a quarter of an inch from his nose from when John had slammed it. After a few moments, directly on the other side of the door, he could hear quiet sobbing, and with each passing moment, it tore his heart into thirds.

"John, no…" Sherlock breathed to himself, lifting his hand to the door and resting his palm on it before leaning forward and resting his forehead on it. _No, John, don't cry. You're a soldier, you've killed people. _Suddenly he felt a vibration in his pocket- from the cell phone he's had since before he moved into Baker Street, that broke him out of his trance from John's cries.

After he had "died," John used to text him a lot, petty threats saying he'd kill him if he were dead, or small facts about the weather, and even begging messages pleading for him not to be dead, and as he unlocked his phone and read the message that appeared on the screen, he bit his lip and turned from the door, composing himself as much as he could as he walked down the stairs and out the door, shoving past Mrs. Hudson as he practically ran down the street.

**I can't do this anymore, Sherlock. Don't be dead.**

**-JW**


	5. Danger Nights

**Chapter Five.**

10:13 P.M. **Please, Sherlock.**

**-JW**

10:15 PM. **Sherlock… I…**

**-JW**

10:17 P.M. **I miss you.**

**-JW**

10:45 P.M. **Sherlock.**

**-JW**

His phone had been receiving text messages nearly constantly since he had left Baker Street. Sitting in his hotel room, lights out, laid back in a plush armchair, Sherlock's crystal blue-grey-green eyes stared down at his mobile phone as message after message rolled in. He could tell John was desperate- desperate and depressed, and deep down Sherlock felt incredibly terrible for pushing his new identity on John so fast. John hadn't a clue of who he really is or why this ginger-headed man was being so obnoxiously forceful, but Sherlock knew what was wrong with him, why he was so obsessed with getting John back into his life.

He would never admit it, though. No. Sentiment was a form of weakness to him.

"John, John, _John_," Sherlock whispered to himself, blinking as yet another message rolled in, pleading with Sherlock to come back. "What have I done to the once strong-shouldered soldier," he continued to whisper, shaking his head as he picked up his phone. For a moment, just a singular, miniscule amount of time, he considered replying, considered telling John he was alive, that he was there, and that he was sorry, but as quickly as the idea popped up, the phone was flung across the room, out of his reach so he wouldn't permanently risk the blonde's safety.

A small scratching was heard at his door shortly after, breaking the silence, and the former detective didn't even bother to move, knowing full-well who it was. "Sherlock," the voice spoke. "Sherlo- …you here?"

"Over here, Mycroft," Sherlock grumbled lowly.

Mycroft's turned back to the guards behind him, telling them to stand guard of the door before turning back and placing his umbrella beside the frame. As his eyes scanned the darkness and he stuck his hands out in front of him slightly, feeling through the dark until his thighs, eventually, ran into the back of Sherlock's chair. "Why are the lights off?"

"Why are you here?" Sherlock spat.

"I'm worried about you, little brother," Mycroft began. After a few moments of no reply, he continued. "You won't believe who came and visited me today."

"John," Sherlock sighed, hearing his phone buzz against the wall across the room.

"Why, yes, actually. John." Mycroft agreed. "Red-faced and puffy like a ripened tomato, he was. Want to know what he told me?"

"No," Sherlock grumbled.

"You must already know what he said, then."

"Obviously," Sherlock sighed once more, pushing himself out of the chair with a painful groan and stepping towards his bed, flipping on the side table light, allowing the yellow fluorescent to fill the room in a golden glow.

Mycroft sat himself down in the chair Sherlock just stood up from. "Why did you go see him?"

"I didn't mean to run into him, Mycroft, it was a chain of events I was unable to control! I wasn't paying attention where I was walking and ended up running into a man, knocking his groceries over, and when I assisted him in picking them up, we made eye contact and I found out it was John," Sherlock spoke swiftly, all in one breath. "He had no idea it was me, I'm sure, I think my eye color put him off a bit, but there's not much I can do about that. I then offered to help him back to the flat and put his things away, in which he offered me tea, and I accepted and-"

"And then you offered yourself as a flat mate," Mycroft interjected.

"I don't know what came over me. Stupid, _stupid_!" Sherlock groaned, throwing himself onto his bed and shoving his face into the fluffy, down pillows. His long, slender legs hung off lazily, and his arms were contorted in ways someone would possibly deem uncomfortable. The phone buzzed once more against the wall across the room, making Sherlock moan loudly in defeat.

Mycroft's eyes flashed to the mobile, snug in the carpet in the corner of the room, screen bright, revealing it was unlocked, as it notified Sherlock he had seven unread messages. "He needs you, Sherlock. Maybe more than you need him."

"I don't need anyone. Alone is what I have, alone protects me," Sherlock mumbled into his pillows.

"No," Mycroft said almost too sweetly. "Friends protect you."

"I don't have any friends," Sherlock began, flipping himself over and pushing himself back to a sitting position with a few grunts of pain here and there, causing Mycroft to give him a look of confusion and remorse. "I haven't had friends for weeks now. I'm alone, Mycroft. I'm utterly alone. And that's the way a high-functioning sociopath should be- **alone**. Now get out," he nearly snarled.

"You wouldn't be alone if you would just-" Mycroft began, but Sherlock threw himself to his feet and interjected, his anger and adrenalin hiding his pain.

"I wouldn't be alone if some older brother of mine wouldn't have blabbed anything and everything I am to the world's most ingenious consulting criminal!" Sherlock said angrily, stepping over to the seat Mycroft sat in.

The phone in the corner buzzed once more.

"I wouldn't be sitting here in this bloody hotel room if it wasn't for Mycroft Holmes! The man who _oh-so-desperately_ wanted Jim Moriarty to talk, therefore he told him about everything I ever was for tidbits of information that no longer even matter! All of my childhood, my teenage years, everything up until I jumped off of that roof- he knew everything, Mycroft! This is all your _bloody_ fault!" Sherlock yelled, pointing a long, accusing finger in Mycroft's face.

The phone vibrated again.

"Will you _shut_ _up_?" Sherlock yelled as he turned in the direction of the phone.

Mycroft sat up taller in his seat, swallowing back guilt as Sherlock looked back towards him, the eyes of the two brothers meeting. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and Sherlock knew he meant it, but a true apology wasn't going to fix his life.

"Tell me that when I'm Sherlock Holmes again. Now get out," Sherlock growled, standing up straight and tugging his shirt down as he turned away from Mycroft and walked towards the sliding glass door that led to the balcony.

Mycroft took in a deep breath and pulled himself up to a standing position. "Will you be alright tonight?" he asked, but he already knew Sherlock wouldn't be. _Danger night,_ he thought to himself. _Every night is now a danger night._

Sherlock didn't reply as he moved his arms to tear open the curtains, the room flooding with bleak and grey London afternoon light; his blank eyes simply stared out the window at nothing in particular as he drew in deep, angry breaths.

Mycroft nodded and turned around and stepped to the doorframe, picking up his umbrella before he turned around and looked at Sherlock once more. "He misses you, Sherlock. He's so alone. He needs you now more than ever," he stated solemnly before he threw the door open and slipped out, one of the two guards shutting the door behind him as they walked away.

The phone buzzed again and this time Sherlock turned to look at it, his eyes watching the screen light up bright, telling him he now had ten unread messages, more than likely stating and restating the same phrase over and over again- _I miss you. I need you. Where are you? Don't be dead, Sherlock. _With each bright blip of the screen, each buzz, Sherlock was pulled lower. His fingers rested gently against his thighs, beginning to tap a small rhythmic pattern as his brilliant mind raced. He stood there for what seemed like minutes to him, but was actually hours, delving himself in his mind, retracting lower and lower until his thoughts were completely black, rushing in and out of his system, turning him numb on his feet. John was always able to help him with the monster that lurked in the back of his mind, the devilish creature that always tempted him with dreams and hallucinations of a luscious and permanent return to his mind palace. By the time he brought himself back into reality with a few blinks of his eyes, it was pitch black outside.

It wasn't often the need became this unbearable, but on pondering on the idea for a few long moments, he let out a nervous, shaky breath, his façade totally shot as he turned around and walked across the room, locking the door as he retrieved a singular, long piece of medical tubing he had stolen from John months before Reichenbach, figuring it would be handy for research one day. Turning around, he threw it in his bed as he walked towards his dresser. Taking in a long series of deep breaths, Holmes reached out and lifted up a small box and reveling a bottle and a hypodermic needle, and with shaky fingers, he grabbed them both in the same hand and turned towards his bed.

_Seven-percent solution of 20mg should be fine. Just this once, and no more,_ he thought to himself, making promises and trying to make sense of what he was about to do, swallowing hard as he placed them on the bed, settling himself into a comfortable sitting position before he undid his left shirt cuff and rolled his sleeve up above his elbow. Grabbing the medical tubing, he tied tightly it around his elbow before he prepared the needle, swearing to himself throughout, cursing his nervous hands as he stared down at the dosage, suddenly stopping all thought and slipping the needle beneath his skin, injecting the drugs into his system, and pulling the needle back out, all within seconds of each other. Untying the medical tubing, Sherlock's pupils dilated, and within seconds he felt his mood elevate and an immense feeling of superiority overcome him.

He would say he regretted ever starting, but as he sat now, a small smile on his lips as he packed up his solution and needle and crawled out of bed, nimbly placing them back in their designated spot on the dresser with sure fingers, he would deny a thought like that from ever crossing his mind.


	6. Drugs Bust

**Chapter Six**

John sat in Sherlock's old chair, scarf sprawled out in his lap, cell phone held tightly in his left hand, his right supporting the weight of his head as he stared out the window, the gentle murmuring of the television in the background, flooding his incoherent thoughts every now and then. He had hardly been productive since Henry had left. Something about the blokes eyes- it wasn't easy to disregard. Those eyes were a pair he had only seen once, throughout all the people he had ever met in his life, through war, in a morgue, chasing folks down the street- those practically liquid, acrylic, ice blue eyes… _Stop it John Just stop it,_ he would think to himself, pulling his legs closer to his chest, the scarf tangling between his legs as he wiggled. _It wasn't Sherlock, he's dead. Don't you dare start thinking he's alive. You've texted him at least one-hundred times, you've seen pictures of his dead body in the paper- albeit covered in '__**FRAUD**__' headlines and discouraging paragraphs beneath it…_

_God, but those eyes… And the cheekbones… He was so thin, though, and the hair was so… so… red… His fingers were long, like Sherlock's were, but he was so small, two of'em could've fit into one of my shirts. I swear he was the same height as Sherlock, though! But he wouldn't wear that outfit… _"Oh, sod it," John sighed, throwing his head back against the chair and dropping his phone at the same time, the clatter not even startling him, as he stared up at the ceiling. He really had to get his life back together, finish packing up his boxes and hiding away a few of Sherlock's things. 221b would be empty in two days; though he felt bad about leaving Mrs. Hudson behind, he felt it was for the best- a new start, a new place, a newly-sober sister-

"Hello, sweetie!" Mrs. Hudson said cheerily, stepping through the old door of the sitting room, interrupting John's thoughts and setting a stack of un-formed boxes at his feet.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John said meekly before he cleared his throat and sat up straighter, sniffling as quietly as he could before he leaned down and picked his phone up from the floor.

"How are you today, huh?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to get a better look at his face, taking only a moment to survey him before she frowned for a moment and reached out and to cup his cheek. He had been crying, it was obvious, but the only way to get through to a soldier was to act like a captain, she thought. "Now, now, John, would Sherlock want to see you this way?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson," John sighed.

"Then get up and pack your things, you have a deadline, you know," Mrs. Husdon began. "Get yourself started and I'll make you a cuppa, alright?" she smiled sweetly at the blonde.

John let out a breathy sigh and nodded once sharply. "Yeah, you're right…" he began, pushing himself out of his chair and onto his feet, reaching for his cane and swiftly steadying himself before he could topple over. "Thank you."

-xx-

"_Do you feel like you're falling?  
You've taken this step.  
In front of you is further from the truth;  
You fall apart in front of me again."_

_ -Not Again; Staind._

A day had passed, and Sherlock had hardly moved from his position on his bed; it was as if he had shut his own body down completely, simply laying down, unmoving, while his head spun, with no desire to eat, drink, socialize, or answer the ever-continuing array of texts plaguing his cell phone, which had died hours ago and had yet to be resurrected. Sherlock had never been at this type of a low, and it honestly felt like his addiction had come full circle- every time the effects of his high wore off, he would wait a few moments, and do it again, and again, and again. He constantly wanted, desperate to feel proud, to feel strong, and the only way he could get out of bed was if his mind was totally clear, the drugs giving him the energy he needed.

He had heard knocks on his door- housekeeping, no doubt- but he disregarded them. Once he swore he heard his brother, but if Mycroft wanted to see him so badly he would've found a way in. He felt lousy, dead inside almost, even though his mind continued to spin and swirl in the few moments he wasn't high. He never thought more deeply then when he was high, but coming down from that high made his mind nearly implode. He would think of things never thought of, considering feats of amazement never before seen by anyone with his own intelligence, let alone anyone at all. He wanted to run, speak to anyone who would listen, maybe even those who wouldn't listen.

That was, until Mycroft kicked down the bedroom door, causing Sherlock to lunge up out of bed, loose his footing almost entirely, and land face-first into the floor. The loud sound of the door hitting the ground made his heart-rate lunge forward and his breathing spike. It really was the last thing he expected, to be barged in on by his big brother while he laid there, staring at the ceiling, legs and arms shaking and tapping the bed in both anxiousness and built-up energy. "Mycroft- what-" Sherlock grumbled, trying to push himself up from the floor as two men stepped two him, both of them grabbing him by the arms/arm pits and lifting him up onto his feet, holding him in place, as a squad of men ran into the room and began searching through everything, anything they could move or get their hands on. _Drug bust,_ Sherlock thought to himself, his eyes wide and frantic as he watched the government officials in bullet proof vests chaotically rush through his room, his breathing heaving in and out- it took him a moment to compose himself.

"Mycroft, what is this?" Sherlock forced out, trying his hardest to make himself looked shocked, squirming in the men's tight, uncomfortable grasp

Mycroft said nothing as he walked to his brother, leaning in close as his eyes scanned his sibling's features- dilated pupils, black circles under his ice eyes, flustered, pale white skin… He moved a hand to Sherlock's right arm, pushing up the sleeve, and finding nothing, then doing the same with the left, and finding a puncture wound/bruise an inch or two above his wrists, and he stared. "You're coming with me until you confront John," Mycroft said simply, releasing his brother's hand. "Where are the drugs?"

Sherlock spoke swiftly, almost incoherently. "Wha-what? John- I- No- I- I'm not- I'm not- with you! What drugs?" His heart-rate was fast, his energy was off the charts, and he honestly felt like he would pass out from oxygen deprivation.

"Sherlock, don't play games with me! There's a injection bruise on your upper wrist, your skin is flustered, your eyes are black- don't you dare for me to expect you're okay! You didn't leave the room at all in the last twenty-four hours, I've had no surveillance on you- I thought you were _**dead**_. I'm going to help you, even if that means locking you away!" Mycroft stated firmly, looking his brother straight in the eyes as someone behind him announced, "Sir, I've got them!"

Sherlock wanted to argue, wanted to fight and demand they let go of the only thing allowing him to live at the moment, but soon a look of defeat took over his expression and within seconds of the officer finding his stash, he blacked out, his lengthy limbs loosing balance and nearly making him fall to the floor, if not for the men holding him.

"Flush the drugs down the toilet, throw out the needle, and take Sherlock to my office- carry him carefully, and put a cold cloth on his forehead when you get there. I'll follow shortly after," Mycroft ordered, watching Sherlock's lanky, limp, k.o.'d body be lifted bridal-style into the bigger man's arms, leading the squad of men out the door, and down the hallway. Concerned, confused glances of men, women, and families shot towards Sherlock as he was carried out, and the sound of a toilet flushing ended the drug bust.

Waiting until the last man exited, Mycroft pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial number eight before he held the phone to his ear. "John? Yes, come to my office at noon tomorrow. It's of the upmost importance," Mycroft stated firmly, listening to the soldier's words on the other end of the line. "No. There will be a car outside 221b at noon exactly, come to me, or I will come to you," and flipped his phone shut.


	7. Punches

**Chapter Seven**

Sherlock had slept on the couch in his brother's office for hours, his body exhausted to the highest extent of the word due to the amount of stimulants injected into his frail system as classical music filled the room. Unable to take his brother to the hospital due to lack of identification, he was able to bring in everything from St. Bart's needed to keep Sherlock stable, specifically an IV, heart monitor, and necessary medication. Working at his desk, Mycroft's eyes kept finding their way to Sherlock's limp body, sprawled out on the couch, covered with a thick, grey-wool blanket, his hands resting together on top of it as an IV dripped medication into his figure. He obviously hadn't eaten in days, hadn't brought a glass of water to his lips in over a day, and yet the heart monitor was beeping strongly in a moderate, steady pace. Sherlock's phone sat next to him on the couch- it hadn't vibrated since Mycroft had made the call to John late last night.

The clock read 11:30, John would be there in half an hour- Mycroft only prayed their meeting wouldn't be one he regretted setting up.

-xx—

_Bloody hell, bloody fucking hell,_ John thought to himself, throwing random objects into a box, lazily packing his things as he breathed heavily. "_Drop all of your plans and meet me, John," "Show up or I'll get you myself," "Do this," "Do that," _he ranted internally, picking up a pillow with the British flag on it before angrily tossing it across the room, making it hit the fireplace, knocking not only a stack of books over, but also Sherlock's skull. "Fuck," he grumbled, limping with his cane to the fireplace as quickly as he could, picking up the fallen items one at a time. "Even in death, Sherlock, your things still inconvenience me."

He continued to step idly around the room, taking in the last glances of 221b Baker Street, knowing that after his meeting with Mycroft, he wouldn't be returning. The moving truck would pick his things up and take them to Harriet's during their meeting, and he would follow suit in a cab shortly afterwards. He would be lying if he said he wasn't afraid of leaving, after having been in one place for longer than he had ever been anywhere else, with someone he had liked more than anyone else, in a town he loved more than anything… Sherlock was all he had, and now he's alone.

_No,_ he thought to himself, throwing the last of his goods into the box and bending down to close it up. _Don't you dare think of Sherlock that way! He was your best friend. Friends come and go. We all have to die eventually. _Standing back up and kicking the box towards the door, John met eyes with a man in a black suit, standing tall, left hand clasped over his right. John's eyes scanned him- _left handed… Unarmed, there's no bulge in his right breast pocket… Smooth-soled shoes and pants that reached his ankles with no mess on the hem- inside worker. _"You're here early," John said, knowing exactly where he would be taken too; he had learned quite a bit from Sherlock's deducing as time passed.

"Simply a precaution, Mr. Holmes," the man said simply.

John wrinkled his nose and sighed. Looking around the flat once more, the memories seemed to flood him, and he wanted nothing more to get out before he broke down again. Feeling for his phone in his pocket, he nodded and spoke, "Well… I'm ready when you are."

"Right this way," the man directed him, stepping out of the door frame and motioning for John to follow his hand, which he did, walking down the stairs carefully, watching the man close the door to the flat from the corner of his eye as the grip on his cane tightened. It was the last time he'd ever see this building- it hurt.

Stepping outside, the weather being shockingly warmer than what he was expecting, John nodded 'thank you' to the other man who held his door open and slid into his seat, finding himself sitting next to the woman he had seem one too many times, her fingers moving swiftly on her cell phone, eyes glued to the screen. "Hello," he said, nodding to her, acknowledging her presence, as his door shut.

She didn't look up when she responded, "Hello," and the car started. John shrugged and turned his head, looking at the door to 221b where Mrs. Hudson stood, smiling lightly and waving a hand, yelling out, "I'll make sure they don't take any of your things!" in regards to the moving people who were to be there shortly after. As the car drove away, he didn't pull his eyes from the dark blue door.

-xx—

A few moments until John's supposed arrival, Sherlock was still sleeping soundly, stirring only semi-often, showing that he was now coming too. His face contorted to one of slight pain, but Mycroft paid it no mind, waltzing around the room to the classical music that continued to flood from his computer, tidying up ever so much before the argument he knew would ensue sooner than not. "You know, Sherlock, I wish you appreciated me a little more," Mycroft spoke out to his little brother, knowing he wouldn't get a reply as he began organizing a set of books alphabetically, by author. "I know this is all of my doing, but I'm trying to make amends, Mr. Holmes," he said, slightly exasperated. "Or, should I say, Harvy Stetson." At the title, Sherlock stirred, and Mycroft worried for a moment that he'd awake before John arrived.

Luckily for him, that wouldn't happen, because as soon as the thought entered his mind, the door to his office was knocked upon, and then was opened, a short, yet stature man standing in the doorway. The door had been opened just enough to hid the couch Sherlock slept on from John's vision in the door, yet the beeping was frequent, and made the doctor pull his eyebrows together. "What's this about, Mycroft? I need to meet my sister."

"No you don't," Mycroft began, turning around and meeting eyes with John, motioning him to sit as he took a seat in his own chair.

John sighed and stepped into the room, hand gripping to the cane as he shut the door and turned around, his ears following the sound of the beeping only to find a lanky man laying on a couch, covered in a blanket, with a various number of machines hooked to him. "…What," he said, looking from the figure, who's legs were hanging off the armrest of it, wearing no shoes, and no socks. "Mycroft, what- who is this?"

Mycroft ignored the soldiers questions and repeated, "Sit," as he poured himself out a glass of bourbon. "Would you like some?" he asked John, raising an eyebrow.

"I- no, no thank you. Mycroft, what is this?" John asked, raising an eyebrow, turning in his seat with a small grunt and looking to the man on the couch, his face hidden now by the grey blanket. "Is he at all relevant to why I'm here?"

"Oh, completely relevant," Mycroft began, closing the lid to his liquor before he took a small sip of his glass. "We just have to wait for him to-"

As if on cue, Sherlock's eyes shot open the blanket flew off of him, a gurgled noise of protest escaping his lips as he tried to make sense of where he was at.

"Oh, he always did have such bad timing," Mycroft complained, taking a large gulp of his drink and standing, slightly exasperated, while the look on John's face was utterly confused. Mycroft was caring for a man, in his office, and speaking of him as if… As if they were… Friends…

"Mycroft…" John trailed off, watching as the government official walked to the bed and talked quietly to the man on the couch.

"Mycrof- My- couch," Sherlock rambled, pushing the blanket off and pushing Mycroft away, pulling himself to a seated position and instantly regretting it, the room seeming to spin around him, knocking him back to laying down.

John had caught a glimpse of the man before he fell back down onto the couch.

"You need to rest, you're incredibly weak," Mycroft warned.

"…Henry Stetson?" John called out, pushing himself to a standing position, cane no longer in hand, as he kicked the chair away. "Mycroft, what the sodding hell is going on here?" Memories began to flood John's mind, memories of Sherlock, their cases, flooding his mind simply because of the eyes of the man that lay before him.

"John, this man isn't Henry Stetson, no matter what he may have told you," Mycroft began, whispering a few more things into the disoriented man's ear before pulling the blanket up to his chin and stepping back.

John froze. "Then who? I let him into my house, he drank tea in my chair-"

"John…" Mycroft began, but John interrupted.

"That's Henry Stetson, he lives in Cardiff, he's here on vacation, he said so! He ran into me while I was holding my groceries! Hair like a fire, eyes like Sher-" he began, and then he froze, a look of panicked understanding flushing over his face.

Mycroft nodded remorsefully.

"…No," John breathed, eyes widening as he glanced from the man, to Mycroft, and back again. "No, no, I don't believe you, Mycroft. I'm supposed to be moving in with my sister! Starting over! And you're telling me Sherlock's laying under that blanket hooked to a bunch of machines?"

"Regretfully so," Mycroft sighed, shaking his head and looking at his younger brother. "He's had quite a difficult time since he left you."

John shoved forward, stepping to the couch, cane left flat on the floor as he leaned down to the side of the couch. _No, no, this… This can't…_ He thought, his hands picking up the cell phone by the couch, unlocking it to find a multitude of unread messages, all from him, from days before. Before he could even stop himself, John's hands found the wool blanket and roughly tugged it back.

"No," John gasped, his eyes meeting the ice-blue-grey eyes of his once-best-friend. "…No."

"Hello, John," Sherlock said meekly, their eyes not leaving one another's as the detective spoke, slowly bringing himself up to a sitting position.

"Sher- Sherl… Sh-" John stuttered, backing away from the red-haired man. "N-no. You…" His eyes began to tear up and he began to tremble ever-so-slightly in front of his friend.

"I'm dead," Sherlock stated, grabbing the glass of water from the end-table with shaky hands, carefully bringing it to his lips and taking a series of small sips, loving the way it filled his empty, sick stomach, and then setting it back down.

"No, you're.. You're here. Sherlock, you're here," John breathed- now that Sherlock was back in his pajamas and dressing down, the only thing that threw him off was the hair, but everything else was Sherlock. Entirely, incredibly Sherlock. They stared at each other for a few moments, Sherlock tired and desperate, John shaking and on the verge of crying, and Mycroft was about to excuse himself from the reunion before he noticed John's fist clench, pull back, and slug the exhausted detective clear in the face.


	8. Thank You

**Chapter Eight**

"John!" Mycroft announced, slightly shocked, stepping forward to grab John by the waist, holding him back as good as he could against the soldiers evident strength.

"You asshole! Do you know what you've been doing to me? How I've dealt without you for the last two months?" John yelled, his hands going down to where Mycroft's dug into his waist, trying to pry the governmental hands off of him.

Stunned, Sherlock slowly raised his head up, the force of John's punch to his jaw having made an eerily harsh '_crack!'_ sound echo through the previously silent office. He groaned in pain, honestly not having expected it in the slightest, but completely understanding why it was administered. "John- I'm s- I'm," Sherlock moaned, the combination of heaviness in his body and throbbing from his jaw made him dizzy, his hands finding the cushions of the couch and gripping his fingers into it, holding himself steady as he looked forward at John. His face was red, his chest was rising and falling heavily, and yet there was something in his eyes- relief?

"Don't you say it! Don't even say it!" John yelled, his hand flying forward as he pointed an accusing finger towards Sherlock, Mycroft continuing to hold tightly onto him, his hands eventually finding their way around his waist. "You're alive, Sherlock! You should've fucking told me you fucking idiot!"

_God, John is strong… _Mycroft thought, blinking as he struggled to keep the man held down. "Keep your voice down, John. You're still in grave danger."

"Mycroft, let him go," Sherlock stated, swallowing hard as if talking took all his might. "I don't know why you brought him here, why you're doing this, but let him go."

Mycroft sighed and released his arms, allowing John to stumble forward and catch himself. Sherlock's eyes ran over him for a moment, and he couldn't help but smile. This fact infuriated John, and in pulling back his fist once more, he growled, "What are you smiling at?"

"You," Sherlock stated without missing a beat.

"Me?" John asked, grimacing and lowering his fist slightly. "Why?"

"You don't have the cane," Sherlock smiled wider, his tired eyes looking up to meet John's. "You had it since I was gone, and you've been with me for ten minutes, and I already got rid of it."

"…Well… That's, uh, that's because… Because… Because you're so utterly infuriating!" John yelled, clenching both is fists now.

Mycroft made his way to the other side of the room, towards the door, knowing he wasn't needed anymore, and not wanting to be around when the yelling finally subsided. He wasn't good with tears, after all.

"I know I am," Sherlock nodded simply. "And you have to understand my reasons of hiding from you, John. I would still be doing it now, if I had the choice to, because you're in grave danger when you're around me."

"I don't care," John said, shaking his head, his hands finally falling limp at his sides. "I don't care, Sherlock, I don't care."

"I do," the detective mumbled, removing the blanket from him completely and scooting over, patting the seat beside him for John to sit. With that, Mycroft left the room.

John looked at the seat, and then to Sherlock, and to the seat yet again. Sighing, he sat down and scooted towards the arm rest opposite from his friend, crossing his legs on the couch and staring. He didn't know how Sherlock did it, and he wasn't going to ask, but simply being in the douche bags' presence made his heart feel all the lighter. "God, you're an asshole."

"For protecting you?" Sherlock asked, keeping his body straight and his eyes forward, taking in low, even breaths as he loosened the grip his hands had on the couch. The IV was helping him, making him wake up, feel full and alive instead of the emptiness the drugs had given him.

"For leaving m- you know what? We'll talk about this another time, I have to go," John sighed, standing up from the couch and adjusting his shirt. This made Sherlock jump, his eyes widen, and his head turn in the direction of the soldier.

"Don't go," Sherlock stated, his eyes filled with sadness and his expression desperate. "Don't make me beg John, don't make me do it. Don't you walk out that door," Sherlock stated firmly.

"What reason do I have to stay now?" John asked, testing Sherlock's limits. "I know you're alive now, and I'm okay now. If you reply to my texts, we'll be alright."

"No, we won't be!" Sherlock began, shoving up from the couch to his feet, remaining stable for only a moment before falling forward, his legs still to wibbly for him to stand correctly. Lucky for him, though, he fell right into John's arms.

The soldier caught the thin, lanky, pale man with ease, and was slightly shocked to find how light he was. "…Sherlock, you're so thin," he murmured, easing him back down onto the couch. "Don't get up, you're not well."

Sherlock's head rocked in pain, the room dancing around him as he leaned back against the couch. "Quite right," he sighed. "Please, John," he began, closing his eyes and gripping onto the couch once more, the IV in his hand becoming painful at his actions. "Please don't leave. Please. God, I missed you, you're my best friend, don't leave." The begging tore Sherlock's ego into small pieces, but the pain it brought from submission was much, much less than the pain brought from being alone. John was everything to him, everything he never had and everything he never knew he wanted.

John hadn't even asked him to bed, yet there he sat, in utter misery, sitting on the couch with an IV in his arm, eyes squeezed shut, desperate for the blonde not to go. It make John's heart ache, to see someone he… Someone he loved, someone he cared for, someone he missed for so long, break down like that. "Give me one reason not to leave," John said carefully, stepping back to the couch again.

"I just gave you three," Sherlock breathed, his chest rising and falling heavily as he spoke. He knew what John wanted to hear, but he wasn't sure he could say it.

"Sherlock," John said firmly, his tone that of a captain, now, like back in Afghanistan, using tone and power to get what he wanted.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he looked at John, staring at him for a long time, their eyes seeming to dig into the depths of each other's minds, when suddenly, Sherlock stuck his boney, IV'd hand out to the doctor. "I can't keep doing this without you, John. You're too important."

John didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't that. "…Thank you, Sherlock," he whispered, taking the detective's hand and lacing it with his as he sat down next to him. The medication flowing into Sherlock's body was letting his guard down, but John would be lying if he said he didn't like it. "I've missed you, Sherlock. Terribly. Every night I would sit in my chair and stare at your violin, trying to picture you playing while the fireplace roared. I'd sometimes accidently make enough tea for both of us, only to realize I was alone. Sherlock, don't leave me alone again. I owe you my life, don't make me regret putting that on your shoulders."

Sherlock's eyes were teary now, the medication doing more to his guard than his brilliant mind would allow, but he couldn't do anything about it. "I'm not going to leave you again," Sherlock promised, weakly squeezing his friend's hand. "I can't do it," he choked out, turning his head away from John and falling over, shoving his head into the couch pillows before he started to cry.

"Ssh, there, there," John mumbled, his free hand rubbing Sherlock's thigh. "Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you," he continued to speak softly, his own eyes threatening to fill with tears. "Get some sleep. You're too weak for this conversation to be legit," he began, wrapping an arm over Sherlock's shoulders and pulling him down as he began standing up.

"No, stay," Sherlock demanded, telling John not to move, to just stay where he was as he slept.

"…Alright," John sighed, and Sherlock fell to his side, resting his head in the soldiers lap, his pale feet finding their way to dangling over the side of the couch's armrests once more. "Go to sleep," John repeated, running his fingers through Sherlock's auburn hair. "Let the medication make you feel better, we'll talk in the morning. Just fall asleep; I'm not going anywhere, everything's alright."

So much for moving to Harriets.


	9. Quite Right

**Chapter Nine**

A few days had passed since they reunited in Mycroft's office, Watson and Holmes together again beneath the cover of nightlight. John knew it was deathly dangerous for him to be associating with Sherlock while he hunted down Moriarty's men, but he didn't care- he wouldn't leave Sherlock's sight. If the detective was home, John was with him, if the ginger was out, they were texting. Sherlock's presence was never more important to John than at this point in time. Sherlock felt the same way, being much more subtle about it, but uncaring about what anyone may think. John was important to him, and he refused to be away from the soldier for more than an hour or two at a time- their relationship had made a drastic turn the moment John realized Sherlock was alive.

It was dark out now as the two sat in 221b, all of John's things returned from the moving truck that had picked it up the days prior, placed back in their previously designated spots. John sat in his chair, holding a novel in his hands that he had read multiple times over, while Sherlock stood by the window, playing the violin for the first time in weeks, as the fireplace roared beside them. It was exactly what Sherlock had wanted again, to be peaceful in the silence of a flat he had grown to love, with a man he had grown to admire.

"Sherlock," John interjected in the peaceful mood of the sitting room, closing his book and setting it on the side table beside him. Sitting up straighter in his seat, he eyed the man across from him- he was beginning to gain his previous form back, promising John he'd eat at least two square meals a day and at least five glasses of water.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered, continuing to play his violin for background noise.

"I… Well…" John trailed off, ruffling his own hair before flattening it, eyeing Sherlock carefully. "I.. You promise to stay here, right? You're not going to up'n leave again?"

The question surprised Sherlock slightly. "Of course, I thought we established this already," he said simply, turning on his heels to face the soldier. "I'd eat more, drink more, no more drugs, and stay by you as much as possible," he nodded, dropping the violin from his shoulder, holding the neck in one hand and the bow in the other.

"But, Sher-" John began, shaking his head. "How will I know you won't just up and leave again? I can't deal with you leaving me, I need you, Sherlock. I really, truly do." His face flustered slightly and he hoped the color of the fireplace would hide it from the consulting detective.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, saying nothing, his eyes staring into the light green iris's that were John Watson.

"Say something, Sherlock," John pleaded after a few moments of silent eye contact.

Sherlock set his violin and his bow down on his chair and stepped towards John. "Do you really mean that?" he asked, stepping until his legs bumped into John's. "Do you truly, truly mean that, John?" He was astonished- people needed him, yes, but never that badly. People never needed his presence constantly, never needed words of affection to ensure they were alive- people normally wanted him away. It was new territory for him.

John bit hard on the inside of his lip, his strong hands reaching out to take Sherlock's as he stood up to his feet. "I mean it, Sherlock. I can't be without you. I just cannot imagine doing it," he said under his breath. Sherlock squeezed his hands, and John bit harder on his lip, leaning his head forward until he nuzzled Sherlock's neck, his breath igniting a longing flame in the depths of the lanky-mans stomach. What was he doing, being so close to Sherlock? Why was he letting him be so close?

"Obviously," Sherlock breathed, releasing one of the hands John held and moving it to cup his chin, his fingers shaking nervously as he took the soldier's chin in his hand. "Me, neither," he replied, stroking his cheek with a trembling thumb. "One more week without you and I would've overdosed for sure."

John's heart began to beat frantically, and he stepped forward, closing the small gap between them so Sherlock could feel his fear, a small gasp escaping him when he felt Sherlock's heart beat was similar to his. Sherlock felt his pulse, felt his chest rising and falling, heard the heaviness of his breath, and when they met eyes again Sherlock asked, "You love me," like a statement, but couldn't prevent it from coming out as a question.

John flushed bright red; he wanted to stutter, deny it, but it was so obvious- _he_ was so obvious. "I.. Sherlock..Yes," he said meekly, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "I do…"

"I…" Sherlock trailed off, swallowing hard- he was normally so good with words, but not when it came to things like this, no, not when it came to feelings. He didn't know how he felt, really, all he knew was that, with John, he felt safe and protected. He could say anything, do anything, leave for two months and return, just to see that John was still there, as loyal as ever. "You're… Good for me."

A small smile crept onto John's lips. "You mean it?"

"Obviously," Sherlock smirked, leaning down to John's level. John's eyes were filled with pride and adoration, and his heart beat continued to slam inside him, and Sherlock wasn't doing any better. Through a dry throat, Sherlock croaked, "I'm going to press our lips together, now. Stop me if you don't desire this level of-"

But he was instantly cut off by the soldier's arms being thrown around his neck and a pair of sweet, desperate lips pressing against his. Sherlock was surprised, his eyes wide as he lowered his hands down John's body, holding onto his waist as he came to his senses and dove into the taste of John's lips, relishing in their first kiss after such a long, strenuous relationship. John moaned slightly against Sherlock's mouth, loving the way his lips dominated him in the smallest ways.

Their lips moved fluently over one another's, their chests pressing up together as Sherlock deepened their kiss, their tongues running lovingly over one another's as his hands held tighter to John. The soldier's happiness skyrocketed, and he let out a small, happy sigh as they pulled away ever-so-slightly, their chests rising and falling almost too heavily as they made eyes yet again.

"Now you really can't leave me," John breathed, reaching a hand up and cupping John's cheek.

"I wouldn't dream of anything of the sort," Sherlock stated just as lowly, taking John's hand and leading him to the couch, sitting down and pulling him alongside his form until they both sat, his thin, pale arms wrapping around the warm soldier and laying a small kiss against his cheek. After a few moments of loving silence, he stated, "Thank you for waiting for me, John."

John looked over to Sherlock, his body still tingling from the kiss that was placed on his cheek, not responding in any way other than pushing Sherlock against the couch, climbing on top of him, and pressing their lip together again, Sherlock finally breathing the words, "I love you so much."


	10. Limbs: Smut Warning

_**AN: **_Warning, this chapter contains smut. 

**Chapter Ten**

The limbs of Sherlock and John were tangled together in a mess of flesh and warmth, their naked, sleeping figures held together as they slept peacefully. Their admissions of their love for one another started with small, intense kisses in the living room, then moved to touching and fondling on the couch, exploring one another with their hands, finding the spots on one another's bodies with their lips and fingers that drove the other wild, and eventually making it over to Sherlock's room, where they remained now; neither of them having ever experienced intimacy with a fellow man, neither felt prepared enough to take it all the way just yet, but simply being able to witness and feel one another almost completely made their first official night home beyond pleasurable.

Sherlock's head was shoved it between two pillows, his lips just caressing John's neck as he breathed silently, his hair a mix of fluff and curl, his hands wrapped protectively around his lovers waist as they slept, their legs hopelessly tangled in one another. He was shivering slightly, not used to having half his covers stolen by the greedy, heavy sleeper beside him, but it made him scoot all the closer, practically sleeping on top of the soldier. John didn't mind at all, simply adjusting his position every-so-often to make room for the sleepy detective, their hips gently grinding against one another as they slept, giving them not only pleasurable dreams, but tempting them to wake up and continue the intimacy they began last night.

John had no idea Sherlock could sound the way he did, look the way he did, and _move_ the way he did the night before, the soldier finding ways to pull out even the highest-pitched moan from the plump, pink lips of the man who lay beneath him at the time. Though Sherlock was a virgin, he held his composure well, and John knew for a fact he'd never look at his flat mate the same- they were lovers now, and any time they spent alone would _really be spent alone._

John awoke first, his breathing hitching for just a moment as he opened his eyes to see Sherlock's neck, covered in pale purple love marks, and feel his partners chin on the top of his head. John took a moment to run his green eyes down the man's body, visualizing images from the night prior, a small smile growing on his lips as he wiggled closer to the pale man, laying his head against Sherlock's chest and pulling the blanket up more, longing for Sherlock to feel warm, knowing he'd be unable to sleep otherwise. At John's movement, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open- while John was a heavy sleeper, Sherlock slept lightly. Taking in a deep breath, Sherlock moved his nimble fingers to John's back, rubbing it in small, loving circles.

"Mm, good morning, Sherlock," the soldier murmured, tilting his head up slightly to look up at his partner.

"Morning," Sherlock breathed. "Sleep well?"

"Perfectly; and you?"

"Decently."

John furrowed his eyebrows together, "Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah," Sherlock mumbled, clearing his throat and pulling John in closer.

"Cold?" John questioned, wrapping his arms around the tall, pale man.

"Yeah…" Sherlock trailed off, nestling his face into the warm crook of John's muscular neck. "What time is it?"

"Uhm…" John lifted his arm up from around Sherlock and glanced at the watch, mumbling the time of '11:30' before stating he would've been more than happy to give Sherlock his blankets, knowing his friend needed warmth, and a lot of it, to sleep peaceably.

"No, hush now, it would've woken you," Sherlock chuckled, leaning down and kissing the top of Sherlock's head. "It's really not a problem."

"I have no problem waking up for you, Sherlock. I'd do anything for you," John breathed.

"Is that so?" Sherlock questioned, supporting himself up with an elbow as he looked at John through bright, playful eyes, a small smile on his face.

"That's so," John replied, smirking as he leaned in along with Sherlock, meeting his pink lips in a loving, gentle kiss, Sherlock moving his body so he hovered over John, a hand on top of the pillow on either side of the blonde's head. Their bodies pressed together, John's hips gyrating against his partners as their kiss deepened, small gasps and moans leaving the lips of both parties as their kiss grew hot and heavy. Totally lost in one another, John's nails beginning to claw at Sherlock's pale, toned back, their legs tangling again, and neither of the men had noticed the repeated, heavy knocks on the door, before two of Mycroft's men open it and stepped in awkwardly, clearing their throats loudly a few times until the two lovers calmed their actions and froze- turning their heads to the side slowly, simultaneously only to clamor and scatter beneath the sheets, separating so Sherlock threw himself to his feet, comforter wrapped around him as he scattered, nearly falling flat on his face as John pulled the sheet to his chin, trying desperately to hide the hard-on his partner had begun to give him.

"Knocking- wonderful concept!" Sherlock yelled angrily to the flustered, suited men by the door. "You should try it some time!"

"We did knock, sir; no answer," the taller one stated.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes; Bosses orders," the shorter of the two commented, awkwardly shifting his weight from left foot to right.

"Mycroft ordered you to unlock Sherlock's bedroom door and intrude on… Personal business?" John cried out, his hands shooting beneath the blanket to cover his erection as Sherlock began pacing up and down the length of his room, muttering angrily to himself.

"What does Mycroft want?" he seethed, curling himself around the white blanket as he glared at the suited men. John crawled up to a seated position on the bed, hands in his lap as he cautiously covered himself.

"He needs you in his office right awa-" the taller began, but was immediately interrupted by a short women shoving her way through the door way.

"Sherlock, there's a black car in the drive and these two men just welcomed themselves in and it's downright ru-" she began, but at the sight before her- of Sherlock standing in the nude, wrapped in a thick blanket, and John on the bed, sheet pooled in his lap, his bare, muscular chest available for all to see. "..Oh, Deary, oh dear, I'm so sorry," she apologized quickly, grabbing the hands of the two guards and leading them away from the door, scolding them for walking in on a private moment between her renters. Her flustered and frustrated voice could he heard all the way down the hall, and as soon as the door shut behind them, Sherlock and John looked at one another, breaking out into a near demented fit of giggles, as Sherlock tossed himself onto the mattress at John's feet.

"Cat's out of the bag now," John chuckled, fidgeting uncomfortably in his position on the bed. Sherlock turned his head to look at him, blue eyes through long, black lashes, as a playful look over came him.

"It sure is," Sherlock said lowly, voice seductive and smooth like velvet as he pulled himself to John, leaving the comforter behind as he straddled John, his perfect arse rocking subtly on the soldier's prick.

"Sherlock…" John gave a breathy moan, biting hard on his lip. "I was hoping you wouldn't see."

"Oh, John, haven't you learned by now that I see _everything?"_ Sherlock questioned, his hands finding John's shoulders and steadying himself to better maneuver his movements on John's lap.

"Shit… Sher, don't you think we should go down to… To… Uhm…" John mumbled, blinking as he lost his trail of thought, his hands finding Sherlock's sharp hip bones and holding him down on his lap, the only thing completely separating them was a thin white sheet.

"Solve the disorganization caused by us sharing a bed last night?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward and pressing his lips to John's neck. "I'd go deal with it myself, but I did make a promise to never leave you again…"

"Don't go anywhere," John said almost too quickly, a soft moan escaping his lips at Sherlock's bites and kisses. Trailing the kisses down, Sherlock pulled himself off his lovers lap, pushing him to his back as the detectives kisses got lower and lower. John's hands found their way to Sherlock's auburn hair, gripping tightly in the curls, willing his lovers soft lips to meet his already achingly hard member. "Sherlock," he moaned, the detective trailing his tongue down the thin line hair that trailed from John's belly button to his member. John's resolve completely faded, and his legs opened more, giving Sherlock all the room he could possibly need to take him.

Swiftly, Sherlock dropped himself onto John, taking his member into his lips, opening his throat to take him completely, a pleasured gasp escaping John as his fingers clenched to the ginger's hair even tighter. "Oh, _Sherlock,_" he moaned loudly, his hips grinding beneath his lover's lustful bobbing motions. Sherlock was driving him insane, his tongue pressing against the vein at the bottom of his member, small sounds similar to that of gagging escaped him before he pulled off with a '_pop!'_ and replaced his mouth with both hands, working him in a stroking-twisting motion that caused John to arch back and moan all the louder.

"Tell me what you want, John," Sherlock said lovingly. "Just like I told you last night, while we were talking about what gets us off, do you remember?"

"Oh, y-yes, I remember, Sherlock," John gasped. They talked about themselves last night while snuggling, about what they liked, how certain things made them feel, what they found to be a turn-on, what they found to be attractive and, for a lack of better words- kinky.

Sherlock had figured John out very quickly. "I know what you like, John; just tell me what to do _Captain,"_ Sherlock said in a husky tone, and John nearly lost it, his hands moving from Sherlock's head to the bed sheets, gripping them desperately as his hips began to thrust up and meet each of Sherlock's pumps.

"Get me off, Sherlock. Fuck, just keep going," John gasped, and Sherlock obliged, pumping John now with as much strength as he could without hurting him, and it drove John wild. "Oh, _God, yes, _Sher- Sherlock!" he cried out. After a few moments of the same repetitive actions, he breathed, "Oh, God, so close…"

"You're so adorable when you're desperate," Sherlock chuckled, removing one of the hands that stroked him and moving it to his balls, fondling them gently, causing a loud, guttural moan to escape from the soldier, signifying he had come totally undone. Sherlock's mouth engulfed John's member within seconds of his moan, capturing his climax deep in his throat and swallowing it all, the pressure change making John whimper like a puppy.

Carefully pulling off, Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wiggled up the bed, wrapping his lover in his long, pale arms. "Good?" he asked swallowing again, hoping he had pleased his soldier well enough.

"Much better than expected, considering it's only you're second time," John panted, looking up to Sherlock with a pleasured smile.

Sherlock leaned over and pressed a light kiss to John's forehead. "I'm going to get changed and go end the arguing downstairs. Meet me in five?"

"Make it ten, I have to shower," John nodded, watching as Sherlock kissed his cheek, crawled out of bed, and dressed himself. Whomever said that a man like Sherlock couldn't love was terribly, terribly wrong. John had never felt more loved and appreciated I his life than he did at that moment.

Nor had Sherlock, who swiftly through on his outfit for the day and headed downstairs, ending Mrs. Hudsons flailing, and finding out what exactly the guards wanted from them. As soon as he knew, though, he let out a foundation-rattling yell of John's name, pushing past the guards, and out towards the front door.


	11. I Love You

**Chapter Eleven**

In hearing Sherlock's yell, John didn't even have time to make it to the shower, opting to wrap himself in a sheet, escape up the stairs, to his room, and change into his day clothing within minutes as to not keep his obviously bothered partner waiting. "Sherlock?" John called, snatching the mug of lukewarm coffee Mrs. Hudson held out to him in the hallway with a small, quick smile, and giving a curt nod to the guards at the door before he slipped outside. "Sherlock?" he asked louder, turning in a small circle only to find his friend pacing up and down the length of the sidewalk, muttering incoherently to himself as he paid no mind to the people trying to walk around him. Jogging up to the detective, trying to hold his cup stable as he went, he took a small sip before swallowing and resting his free hand on Sherlock's chest, halting his movements and tapping him a few times to bring him back into reality. He looked obviously panicked, his outfit still that of something Henry Stetson would wear, the dark blue color of his navy button-up complimenting his ginger top all too well. "What's wrong?"

"They know," Sherlock breathed, standing up tall, his eyes flickering left, right, and finally down to John. "They know, John. They know," he kept repeating the same phrase under his breath, pushing past his lover swiftly as he began pacing again, making John spill his coffee onto the front of his pants, a slur of indecencies leaving his lips at the site.

"Who knows, Sherlock? And knows about what?" the soldier asked, grumbling as he wiped off his pants.

"Moriarty's men. They know I'm here, John, they know I'm alive. At least that's what Mycroft's saying. Come, we need to get you inside," Sherlock said swiftly, grabbing John's had and yanking him towards the door, practically shoving him inside and sealing the door behind him.

"Wha- what? How? You look nothing like your old self!" John exclaimed as he stumbled into 221b. "What's going on, Sherlock? How do they know!" John pestered, standing up straight and watching as Sherlock continued to pace, his eyes wild, and fearful for the first time in a long time. The lower floor of the flat was filled with voices; Mrs. Hudson's panicked remarks towards John and Sherlock's safety the guards conversations about something completely unrelated, and John's pestering of his own safety and the current situation they resided in.

Suddenly, Sherlock announced, "Shut up! All of you! Shut your lips and turn around!" he couldn't focus, his mind in a tizzy of emotions and frantic thoughts as he froze on the spot, his eyes looking out towards nowhere in particular as the room silenced around him. John's hand covered Mrs. Hudson's mouth, who's hand likewise covered his, the two guards at the door turning their backs and holding their tongues- they all knew how the genius got, and though Sherlock was panicked, he had no ideas. "I'm done for," he said after a certain matter of moments had passed.

Turning on his heel, he walked towards John. "John," he began, his hands moving up to catch the soldiers' cheeks. "I need you to listen to me, and listen well, do you hear?"

John's face went white-washed at Sherlock's words. Though Sherlock had said nothing of substance yet, he knew what was going to be said, and he wouldn't allow it. "No, Sherlock. No, I won't let you- no. Just.. We'll figure something out. We'll hide away forever if we have to. Just- don't- don't you dare say you're leaving me again, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face grew stone-cold, lathered with unemotion. "If what Mycroft is saying is true John, there's no other way. I spent the last two months trying to track down yours, Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's hit-men, finding absolutely no trail. Moriarty hid them, John, I don't know where they are. I can't find them. I can't deduce their locations, I can't do anything, John, and I won't stand here and go about my life with you until I know you're perfectly safe, and if that requires me to die for real this time around… So be it."

"No," John began, swallowing and shaking it head. "Sherlock, don't."

"Sweetie…" Mrs. Hudson chimed in silently.

"No discussion. You two stay here, gentlemen-" Sherlock began, turning on his heels towards the men in suits who currently guarded the door, responding with 'sir?' to Mr. Holmes. "One of you come with me to Mycroft's office, and one of you stay here and make sure these two don't leave the premises. Ring Lestrade, tell him to get here immediately, make up a story as to why, just don't let him know I'm alive."

"Yes, sir," the two said in unison, the taller of the two opting to stay behind and protect the victims.

"And John," Sherlock began, turning towards his flat mate once more, meeting eyes with him as he stepped forward. "Please listen to me," he continued, stepping to his friend and cupping his cheeks. "I l..love you, alright? I need you safe. If you're not alive, I have no reason to be here. If I'm dead, you'll move on. I need you more then you need me; you'll function if I don't come back, but I won't function if I come home and see you're gone."

"Sherlock, don't go," John pleaded, his hands moving upwards to cover those of the tall man before him. "I can't lose you again."

"Believe in me," Sherlock said simply, leaning down and pressing a light, gentle kiss against the blonde's quivering ones, making the man tremble slightly beneath him, and Mrs. Hudson let out a muffled sob against the hand that covered her mouth. When Sherlock pulled away, John nodded once in approval to Sherlock's words before the detective turned towards Mrs. Hudson. "Be safe," he stated firmly.

"Of course, Sherlock," she replied, biting down on her lip, hating watching the two men before her possibly be separated for the final time.

"Mr. Holmes, we need to go," the shorter of the two men stated in a husky voice.

Sherlock nodded, "I love you," he told John again, giving him a curt half-smile before turning on his heels and walking to the door.

John couldn't reply, simply falling back against the staircase railing and staring forward, his body seeming to be unable to function as he watched the dark blue door slam shut. "What if he doesn't come back?" John asked in a small, breathy voice.

"Sherlock's a big boy..." Mrs. Hudson sighed, still partially surprised he was alive in the first place, and upset to watch him possibly leave for his death again, but it wasn't any of her doing, and she was in no place to comment on it. "Most of the time…"


	12. Mind Palace

AN: Sorry this took so long; please enjoy!

**Chapter Twelve**

Nearly a week had gone by, and John's life had quickly turned back to what it was before Sherlock had run off again. He knew the detective's existence was too good to be true, knew he wouldn't be able to have his tanned hands wrapped around the taller man's pale body for long, but at least this time there was a proper goodbye that allowed John a smidge more of hope this time. The world still wouldn't know of Sherlock's existence, believing in his new identity as he took shelter in his older brother's office. He hadn't received a singular text message or even a note on his partner's progress, but he knew it was best for him to stay out of the way and to not even attempt to interfere with Sherlock's business. Though he was sure of his partner's well-being, his limp had returned, and his sunken/solemn personality returned.

John had kept an almost obsessive tab on Lestrade- two or three calls daily, texts on the hour, every hour, to ensure the D.I.'s safety. Greg had no idea what John's issue was, let alone any idea that Sherlock was alive of that there were hit-men after him, all he knew was that John Hamish Watson was worried; constantly. Mrs. Hudson wasn't allowed to leave John's sight, even deciding to have a woman guard stand duty on the door inside her bathroom while she showered. Life had become complicated, frightening, and heavily armed, but they made do with what they could.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stayed nearly attached to his elder brother's hip. When he wasn't in the protection of Mycroft, he was under the shielding of his men; Sherlock loathed being watched every moment of the day, hated having no privacy- but no privacy was better than no John, in his opinion. He'd made some progress, having been able to get a lead on the man that would be watching over John- a thin man with wriggly hair and a stern hand. Though he got a physical description from an anonymous caller, he refused to take it seriously- no data, nothing to ensure him that they weren't playing a game, that they were watching him dance from every corner of the earth

Presently, Sherlock Holmes sat sprawled-out on the same couch he reunited with John in only a few weeks back, conversing with Mycroft about their next stage in their plan. Both of their tones were ruff, unpleasant, and tired- neither had gotten hardly enough sleep, the elder finding the effects of sleep deprivation all the worse considering his job in the government. "All of your papers have been redone, you're technically now in a witness protection unit, Henry," Mycroft said sleepily, leaning back against his chair. "Henry Stetson- legally decided at the brilliant age of 36. Born with auburn hair, blue eyes, from Cardiff, Wales. Technically, we're no longer related."

"Oh, don't be like that," Sherlock spat. "You're my brother, as much as I loathe to admit it, and I'm doing you in for a favour right now. We've got hints o the hit me, Mycroft! We can finish this- once and for all! John can be safe, the real Sherlock Holmes can return, and you can go about your life eating cake and blaming me for all of your newly added gray hairs," the detective grunted, throwing himself off the couch as he began to pace back and forth, his feet padding into the carpet. After a few moments, they began to make a trail, caving his footing into the plush fabric below his shoes.

Mycroft made a face of disgusted disappointment towards his brother. "What would you like me to do, Sherlock?" he said almost too sweetly, clicking his tongue and leaning forward, reaching a hand out to grab the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, halting his incessant pacing. "I've given you your own squad of guards. I've given John his own, too. I have people out searching for the men that are threatening your love's life-"

"He's not my _love_," Sherlock interjected bitterly.

Mycroft's face flushed with a look of enthusiasm. "Really, now?"

"One intimate evening and everyone thinks we're lovers," Sherlock muttered to himself, shaking his head as he tore his coat away from his brother and began pacing once more. "I love him, but that doesn't make us lovers, Mycroft. One night doesn't make us lovers. If a night of moaning in delight made people lovers, than you and that bloody strudel in your fridge have been together _much longer_," he hissed- he knew he was being too harsh, too rude to his brother, but he didn't care. He was strung out to the highest title of the world- he'd been out running on the streets of London for the week he'd been gone, searching everywhere around 221b and Scotland Yard for the people who might be after his only two friends and one romantic interest. "I'm above to give in and just step outside, wave my arms around, and wait for the shots- this isn't bloody worth it-"

This made Mycroft push out of his seat and glare, his well-trimmed finger nails digging into the supple wood of his desk. "Sherlock!" he yelled almost too loudly, his official-tone ringing through the expansive room of his office. The sheer power in his voice was enough to halt Sherlock in his tracks- of course he pushed his limits. Of course; he should be grateful for his brother's help, for keeping him alive in his desperate time of need. "Mycroft-" Sherlock began with a start, but Mycroft waved a hand sharply in the air, indicating he wanted silence, and Sherlock obliged.

"Listen to me, and listen good, because I absolutely refuse to continue this charade if all I'm going to get from you is abuse and harsh tones- Sherlock Holmes, you are the world's only Consulting Detective, and you have found yourself in situations much, _much_ more dire than this," he began, standing firm as he stepped around his desk and in front of his brother, his eyes practically burning into his siblings. "Never once have I witnessed you giving up. I do not approve of how you're handing this, neither would Mummy, you and I both know that! I am one man who rules practically a thousand- even with that, I cannot fix every aspect of your life. **Think** Sherlock, by god, get over yourself and just _**think!**_" Mycroft yelled, his arms shooting out and clapping his brother's shoulders, gripping in almost too loudly. "You're brilliant! You know the drill- Mind Palace. Attic. Sit down on the sodding couch behind me and stare off into space, think of the evidence you've been given, **and come up with something**! Because at this bloody rate, I'm about to tell you I can't assist you anymore. I can't do this, Sherlock. I'm running on empty."

Sherlock stared at his brother, each word practically sinking into his soul as he kept eye contact. "Mycroft," he began, shrugging his shoulders beneath his brother's grip. "I can't-"

"No," the elder hissed.

"I won't-" Sherlock began once again, his hands lifting up to his brother's on his shoulders.

"Absolutely not," the other continued, swiftly removing his hands as soon as Sherlock's rested on top of his. "I won't allow it."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say," Sherlock said, his voice thick with desperation and defensiveness.

"Really Sherlock, must you be so obvious?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow.

_Obvious._

The word rang in Sherlock's mind for a moment, easing in and out of his brain, causing him to shiver, tremble, and almost instantly his eyes widened. "Obvious," he breathed, his features going completely blank. _That's the problem,_ Sherlock began to think, leaning back against his brother's desk, his eyes hazing over as he stared at nothing in particular. _I'm obvious- that's the problem. That's the problem! These fellows who are after my friends think they know my next move- have obviously been trained to expect certain things from me, to know how I move, how I think, how I __**speak**_…

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, his face turning into once of relief after a few moments as he called his brother's name and received no response- lifting a finger, he snapped it by his brothers ear, and received not even a blink in conformation. He was lost in his mind- he was solving it.

_I need to do something unexpected, something not Sherlock, something not Holmes, something not detective- something to draw them in, to make their feeble minds believe I'm done for, that I'm tired of this game. They're smart, they won't fall for anything, but they're animals, trained for the hunt,_ Sherlock pushed himself back on his brother's desk and crossed his legs, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasping together in a prayer-like fashion beneath his chin. His breath was practically non-existent, silent as possible as to not disturb his mind, his body frozen now except for the subtle motion of his chest rising and falling. _Blood thirsty, desperate- first one to Sherlock Holmes get the prize. I know for a fact if I give myself up to one, the other two will disregard their orders and shoot their designated fellows. I have a one in three chance of being shot by John's hit-man if I send out a notice of a meeting place and give myself up, but then the other two die. If I give all three an equal opportunity to kill me, I might be able to save them, but I highly doubt assassins care about the numbers. _

Mycroft sat back in his desk, continuing to do his work around his younger brother.

_How to get their attention, though? "Red-headed ex-consulting detective desires to meet three blood-thirsty assassins at the tracks, 10 o'clock sharp. Bring fire arms," is too obvious, obviously- then what? Wording, Sherlock, think of wording- __**code.**__ A code. All assassins know a code- what code? Morse code. They should know that, but a good general censes of the population knows it- I know, I've done my research. Caesar Shift, maybe, but there's no guarantee… Think, Sherlock, god damn it! _He was stressing out, even in his mind palace. He swallowed hard, pushing the emotions he currently had to the back of his mind, disregarding fear, facing death, and thinking of facts; data, knowledge, pure and unedited information- the sheer power of it almost orgasmic too him, to face pure facts in the face. Suddenly, he drew in a heavy, excited gasp, and threw himself off of his brother's desk, tumbling to the floor for a moment with the unexpected three-foot distance from the floor before standing back to his feet with a look of pure excitement on his features as he turned towards his brother. "I've got it! Yes, it's brilliant, oh I'm so _bloody_ brilliant!" Sherlock called to himself, clenching his hands into fists and doing a few small punches out of pure mentally-approved bliss.

This caused Mycroft to cock an eyebrow. "Hm?" he asked, pushing from his computer and looking his brother in the face. "What? What is it?"

Sherlock simply grinned and spoke the words, "Transposition cipher. Homeless network. To the Queen and Country I'm brilliant," before turning on his feet, stepping to the door, and throwing it open, announcing the phrase, "Laters!" as he snapped his fingers and slammed the door behind him, a group of four of heavily armed, heavily protected men and women following behind him.


	13. Notice

Hey you guys,

I really do apologize for the lack of updating on this story. School started up again for me, and my life's gotten pretty chaotic (my mom's getting married and my friend's going into the military soon), and it's been difficult for me to balance my priorities.

I promise you I'll have an update by 9 o'clock EST this Saturday (9/15/12).

If you would like some Johnlock _right now_ then feel free to take a gander at my Sherlock RP blog ( .com) and/or my partners ( .com).

Once again, I do apologize, and I thank you for reading!

-Copacetic


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